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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28827792">Dreams &amp; Pomegranate Seeds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lots_of_Little_Pink_Clouds/pseuds/Lots_of_Little_Pink_Clouds'>Lots_of_Little_Pink_Clouds</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Birds of a Feather [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Choice of Games, Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade (Choice of Games Visual Novels), Vampire: The Masquerade - Night Road</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, Gen, Op is a shovelhead, Sabbat (Vampire: The Masquerade), Sabbat recruit methods, Vampire Turning, Vampires</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:40:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28827792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lots_of_Little_Pink_Clouds/pseuds/Lots_of_Little_Pink_Clouds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><span class="u"><strong>November 24th 1999</strong></span><br/>She's burning from the inside. Fire licks from her neck, to her head, down to her back and her toes. She wants to thrash, to scream but everything is pinned limbs and zipped shut mouths and wide glowing eyes staring at her from a dark abyss. She feels blood on her face, blood on her chest, blood on her hands and <em>everything is burning</em>.</p><p>**The Sabbat perform a Mass Embrace and a lark rises from the grave. I.e. how a Malkavian Courier came into existence.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Birds of a Feather [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dreams &amp; Pomegranate Seeds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>November 24th 1999</strong>
  </span>
</p><p>She's burning from the inside. Fire licks from her neck, to her head, down to her back and her toes. She wants to thrash, to scream but everything is pinned limbs and zipped shut mouths and wide glowing eyes staring at her from a dark abyss. She feels blood on her face, blood on her chest, blood on her hands and <em>everything is burning</em>.</p><p>
  <em>He can't move. Why can't he move?</em>
</p><p>Tears well up in her eyes as she stares into a swirling sky of black and grey and blue. Humanoid shapes swagger and jerk like puppets on rubber band strings, moving in and out of her sightline. Then the scene changes and all she can smell is fire and smoke and the burning tires of his car.</p><p>
  <em>He crashed. He crashed. He crashed.</em>
</p><p>Darkness creeps into her vision. She scrambles and struggles to move sluggish limbs, but to no avail. All she can hear is the droning sound of laughter and screams and moans that whirls like the backdrop of the city.</p><p>At least it's not Tombstone. There's only so much irony she can take, and she'd rather not die in a place with so morbid a name. Not that Tucson is much better.</p><p>
  <em>Hands on his back. Hands on his arms. He's being pulled apart! Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!</em>
</p><p>Mentally, she reaches and grasps and clings to him, her body going limp. She holds tight and squeezes and he reaches back. Their hands intertwine like lovers, knuckles bone-white and nails digging into flesh and moonshine overhead.</p><p>
  <em>Crescent moons and turquoise roses. Aurora Borealis and flocks of birds going up in flames.</em>
</p><p>The pressure against her neck recedes. Her head lulls to the side. The darkness engulfs her and him, like maggots writhing over a corpse.</p><p>And they dream.</p><p>They dream of snowy Norway and rainy England and eagles taking flight. They dream of sunbeams shining through autumn leaves. A woman laughs, low and throaty and warmth blossoms through them like a spear going through their gut. Then it becomes cold and sterile - a hospital, a prison, a laboratory - and they're biting their hand, their finger. They're biting and biting and biting and they break through the bone and their ring finger comes off.</p><p>The blood drips into their mouth like sweet ambrosia. Like scalding tea in spring, like Thanksgiving turkey drenched in thick gravy. Like winter winds nipping at your ears or like the warm waters of the sea on a beach resort or like the burning tinge of alcohol as it trails down your throat.</p><p>They dream of sunny mornings and laughter and love. Working with their mother in the kitchen and playing in the streets. They dream of screams and rumbling earth and sorrowful green eyes. They feel the wind on their face and rain in their hair and sloppy, hesitant, traitorous kisses along their mouth. They hear a boy screaming and their heart breaks - <em>he's so young</em> - and the sound cuts out.</p><p>
  <em>They're falling. They're caught. They're DEVOURED.</em>
</p><p>They dream of the vastness of space and stars just out of reach. They dream of cold airconditioned halls and a dark black void outside the window. They dream of flaming red hair and gunfire and whispered confessions between heady firefights and gentle sex. Pain erupts in their gut.</p><p>
  <em>She's thirsty. So, so thirsty.</em>
</p><p>They dream of darkness. A cold void as vast as the ocean, as infinite as space, empty and formless and unknowable. A man with his beckoning voice, pleading with them to save him. His body hanging like meat over a fire, skin flayed and cannibalized. Bone arms wrap around them as they weep, cradling them as they shake and struggle and sob.</p><p><em>Sweet mother</em>, they ask, beg, <em>sweet mother, what's happening to me</em>?</p><p>Skeletal fingers run through their hair and turn their chin upwards, or where they believe upwards to be. They follow the Other through the empty void, hand-in-hand with their spectral mother. The scent of sweet nectar reaches their nose, fills their senses, and overwhelms them. They stop and the skeletal hands of their mother lifts a fruit, a pomegranate, to their lips and they bite.</p><p>They moan and devour the pomegranate, seeds and stem and all.</p><p>
  <em>She needs MORE. It's not enough.</em>
</p><p>They take off into the dark void, letting go of their mother's hand and leaving her behind, towards where more of those fruits lie. They follow that scent, that <em>hunger</em>, a primal urge stirring inside them.</p><p>
  <em>More more morE MORE MORE SHE NEEDS MORE MORE MOREMOREMORE-</em>
</p><p>She bursts free from the ground like Athena burst from Zeus' skull, prying herself up and out, snarling and hissing like a rabid animal. The sharp sweet pomegranate scent hits her nose and she descends upon her target, knocking them to the ground. She plunges her teeth into their neck.</p><p>The person screams and claws, tries to throw their assailant off, but she clings and clenches her jaw. A cacophony of screams reach her ears, but she remains focused on the target in her grasp and drinks and drinks and drinks. Only when she's satisfied does she let go.</p><p>She sits up, panting. Then she registers the blood on her chest, the blood on her hands, the blood on, around, in her mouth. She looks down at the body.</p><p>Their face shifts and changes and morphs. A blonde woman with stern features, blue eyes open in shock. A man in his early twenties, green eyes wide in horror, face pale. A red-haired woman with brown eyes, freckles, and her jaw clenched in anger. A man with long dark hair, eyes closed, face contorted in pain. With shaking hands, she checks for a pulse but finds nothing.</p><p><em>What have I done</em>?</p><p>A hand falls onto her shoulder. She flinches.</p><p>Looking up, she sees a dark-haired man with a goatee. He wears a wide-brimmed hat and a fine-tailored suit. Blood stains his sleeves, his pants, his shoes. The Rook looks down at her and smiles, sharp canine teeth glinting in the light of the moon.</p><p>"Well done, my Lark. Come, we have much to discuss."</p><p>Then he turns away.</p><p>She sees several other people kneeling in the dirt and sucking bodies dry. The Rook goes to them and speaks. She turns back to the body beneath her and thinks:</p><p>"<em>That's not my name</em>."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The embrace of my Malkavian Courier, dubbed "Lark" by her sire. She calls him "a rook" or "The Rook," though his name is actually Gerard Pelletier. See <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786023/chapters/70592013">The Diary of Gerard Pelletier (Selections)</a> to learn more about him. Also, check out <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28564350">Dirt, Worms, &amp; Kaleidoscopic Skies</a> because there's a lot of similarities between this fic and that one.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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